


Peace of Pie

by GoddessofBirth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dreams, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:31:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean dreams of pie.  And Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peace of Pie

**Author's Note:**

> So, obviously this was written before 'The Reborn Identity', so you might consider it a little AU. Written in honor of National Pie Day;)

Dean is absolutely sure he is dreaming. Normally he might question it, as this dream is nothing like his usual ones. He's not peeling skin from a soul sent to hell, his eyes full on black as pitch, or plunging a knife into Sammy's chest while Lucifer looks out from his brother's eyes, or telling Michael _yes_ instead of no. Nor is it like his earlier dreams, reliving his father dying, or seeing hunts gone terribly wrong; night-visions so mundane that these days he doesn't even think of them as nightmares.

 

No, this dream is...pleasant. Comforting, even. He's sitting in a diner, the atmosphere as homey and familiar as the checked cloth on the table. He has the remnants of a cheeseburger on the plate in front of him – he must have been hungry, because it's really only a discarded bit of onion, a few crumbs, and a smear of ketchup – and his glass of coke is down to just ice.

 

So yeah, nice. At any other time he would never pinpoint this as a dream, but he knows it is, simply by virtue of the angel sitting across the table from him. Castiel is chewing the last bits of his own burger, slurping soda through his straw, the sound gurgling and airy as he tries to pull every last bit from the bottom of the glass. His hair is mussed, but normal mussed, in a way that is almost endearing, not that wild, hand pulled mess it had been as he'd disappeared beneath the water.

 

And that is why Dean recognizes the dream for what it is, because Cas is dead, and even before he was dead it had been years since he'd looked as calm and as clear as he looks now, face smooth and unravaged by a war that had drained whatever kind of soul an angel might have, his eyes blue and bright and serene.

 

Dean is slouching against the back of the bench, hands shoved in his pockets, unable to stop staring at Castiel.

 

Castiel takes one more drink from his straw, shaking the ice in a vain effort to loosen the last dregs of soda, then giving it up as a lost effort. He puts the glass back on the table and slides it a ways away from him, before folding his hands neatly on the table and finally addressing Dean.

 

'You don't look well, Dean.'

 

'And a fine fucking hello to you, too,' Dean shoots back, because as he's told Sam a hundred times, he is  _fine_ .

 

'No, you are not fine, Dean.'

 

'Now that is just creepy, Cas. Out of the head, okay?'

 

Castiel glances around the diner before returning his always too intense gaze back to Dean. 'This is all your head. It would be impossible for me to get out.' His eyes are impossibly wide as he waits for Dean's response, his body perfectly still and unfidgeting.

 

'You're not real,' Dean accuses suddenly, although he thinks it's probably stupid to yell at something he made up, and why is it that he's always arguing or hollering at Cas when that's never what he really wants to do?

 

'Of course not, Dean. I'm dead, and Bobby is dead, and you are not sleeping or eating or letting Sam help you or dealing with it at all, and I  _do not like it_ .' At the end, Castiel's voice is almost menacing as he pulls a 'bad ass angel of the Lord' face, but before Dean can say what he's thinking, something like  _My subconscious is being a real_ bitch _today_ , their waitress returns, with a smile and a pad of paper and a head of gray hair, done up in a bun, a la Alice from  _Mel's Diner_ .

 

'You boys want some dessert? Got a special on pie. Two slices for the price of one, or buy a whole pie, get one free.'

 

'What's the occasion?'

 

She jabs her pen at the glass storefront and Dean sees a bright blue window cling, proclaiming it was 'National Pie Day.'

 

'Well how 'bout that. Now that's a holiday I can get behind. Give me two slices of apple. Oh, and a glass of milk.'

 

'Sure thing, sug.' She doesn't write it down, so Dean knows she's good; probably had this job for years. She shifts her gaze to Castiel.

 

'How about you, honey? You look like you could use a bit of home cookin'.' The look in her eyes is maternal, and for a minute Dean feels nostalgia, with a side dish of pain, for his mother and for Ellen and for the half a dozen other women he's met and lost who had briefly attempted to fill that role. But before he can drown in it – he's found it harder and harder to swim upstream these days – her brow furrows and she peers harder at Cas.

 

'Sugah, ain't you supposed to - '

 

'I will have the cherry.' Castiel's order cuts her off mid sentence.

 

'But - '

 

'With a glass of milk as well,' he interrupts again, looking at her with something in his eye that Dean almost thinks is dangerous, and he wonders why his head has dreamed up this particular exchange.

 

'Alright.' She drawls out the word doubtfully. 'Two pieces?'

 

'No thank you. Just the one.'

 

'Dude,' Dean protests, because  _come on_ !  _Pie_ ! 'It's the same price! And you know I'm gonna end up paying anyway.'

 

'Just one,' Cas reaffirms stubbornly, and Dean rolls his eyes and makes a  _what can you do_ gesture at the waitress, who shrugs back and disappears with their order to the dessert display.

 

'Dean,' Castiel says again, and Dean knows he's going to start back in on the whole  _you're not well_ thing, and really, he's had enough of that from Sammy.

 

'Look, Cas, you know what? People die. That's the way it goes. Circle of life and all that bullshit. Nothing you can do about it. Besides, you went all psycho Manson on us before you died – maybe I'm not even sad you're gone.'

 

For a moment it looks like Castiel almost flinches, but then he regains himself and is back to looking at Dean with that too penetrating, too, too knowing stare, his head tilted slightly as he gently says, 'Dean.'

 

Dean's posturing crumbles just a bit. 'Look, what'd'ya want me to do? Curl up in a ball somewhere? Is that what it's going to take to get Sam off my back? To get you to stop showing up in my head?'

 

Something in Castiel's eyes sharpens and he inquires seriously, 'You would prefer not to dream of me?'

 

And  _boy_ does that somehow sound gay, but he's saved from having to answer and say something equally as gay, like  _No, I just want you to stop bitching_ by the waitress returning with pie and milk, and Dean digs in eagerly, as much for the pie as to stall the conversation. It's flaky and moist and the apples are just tart enough for it not to be cloying; he closes his eyes and lets the flavor roll around in his mouth with an appreciative moan.

 

When he opens his eyes again, Castiel is following every movement he's making, from the twitch of his lips to the hand holding the fork, just like he used to. It used to be something that sort of freaked him out, but now it's just like this diner. Comfortable... _comforting_ .

 

'Good pie,' he speaks around a mouthful and Cas nods and finally cuts into his piece. He eats with as much enjoyment as Dean does, and Dean finds himself mimicking Castiel, watching him chew and cut and swallow, his adam's apple bobbing as he guzzles the milk in nearly one go. It's  _good_ to see him here, whole and fit and alive and finding happiness in something as uncomplicated as pie. Yeah, it's not real, and yeah, it's all in his head, but he'll take what he can get these days.

 

Castiel finishes his piece and waits until Dean has started into his second slice, before picking up the earlier thread of conversation.

 

'I want you to grieve, Dean. My Father created humanity with the capacity to mourn, to cry. It is a gift to be able to release your pain and rebuild from its ashes. If he had not given this to you, you would all have turned to darkness long ago. You are breaking into a million pieces with every second that passes, and you will destroy yourself. This is not what I wanted for you. Do not throw away everything that Bobby and I worked for, what Sam has worked for, what  _you_ have worked for.  _Grieve_ .'

 

'How 'bout you, Cas?' he accuses angrily, forgetting for a minute he's not actually talking to his angel. 'You ever grieve?' He wonders if that's what happens to those other Castiels, in those other lives; if they bottle everything up until one day it just explodes.

 

Castiel's eyes are solemn and then sad. He says quietly. 'I grieve every day, Dean. Every eternity.'

 

And that just punches a hole right through his chest and he slams his palm down on the table. 'What do you wanna hear from me, Cas? You want me to say that you and Bobby left me when I needed you most and I'm pissed as hell about it? That I never got a chance to tell you I didn't hold it against you? That I never apologized for being a dick half the time? That Bobby was more of a dad than mine ever was and I feel like a failed him and I failed you and I carry your goddamn trenchcoat around in my car because I can't make myself get rid of it even though I should and sometimes I turn around and still expect to see you in the backseat? That what you did hurt me in ways I didn't even realize could hurt and I feel like I got freakin' buckshot in my gut so that no matter what way I shift I got pain? Is  _that_ what you wanna hear?'

 

He's vaguely aware he has tears running down his face, but he's too busy watching Cas watch him to wipe them away. Cas's lashes are wet and his face is twisted in a pained grimace that Dean thinks might match his own.

 

'Yes, Dean, that is what I want to hear. That is what you need to let yourself hear.' He reaches across the table and places his palm on Dean's forehead, but instead of the angel whammy he's expecting, there's nothing but the warmth of Castiel's hand and he can't help but lean into it, reality and gayness be damned.

 

'Heal, Dean.'

 

Things in the diner are starting to shift and stretch in fun house ways, and Dean realizes he's probably waking up. He grabs Cas's hand in a panic when he sees the edges of the angel start to shimmer along with everything else.

 

'Hey, don't stop showin' up in my dreams, okay?'

 

He thinks he sees Cas quirk a smile but then he's gone and everything disintegrates into black.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Dean gasps awake, shooting upright in the bed, the covers falling to his waist. It's still dark, and Sam is snoring loudly in the other bed. Dean shivers in the night air chill and switches on the table lamp. His cheeks are wet and there's the taste of apples in his mouth, and when he wipes his lips with the back of his hand, it comes away spotted with crumbs.

 

 


End file.
